Ayan

The spring hunt had begun. All the men from the village hidden at the foot of the mountain had gathered in a group to head up the slopes in search of prey. The mountains were densely covered with trees, so Ayan, the hunter who always moved faster than the others, strayed too far ahead and lost his group. However, it no longer mattered to him. He had managed to shoot a couple of hares when he came across a trail of blood. The scarlet drops stretched deep into the forest, toward a huge boulder covered in moss. Ayan followed the trail cautiously, silently reloading his shotgun. But when he peered around a boulder, his fingers paused for a moment on the trigger. You lay in the snow, in a pool of your own blood—a snow leopard hybrid. Your chest heaved, and warm blood still oozed from the deep, ragged wound on your side, melting the snow around you. Ayan aimed the gun at you. Cleanly, quickly—finishing off the wounded beast would have been merciful. But he slowly lowered the gun when he noticed your breathing: wheezing, painfully, but still clinging to life.

“Well, I got caught…” he said quietly to himself.